


Messenger, Trickster, Brother, Prisoner

by Areiton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangel Gabriel (Supernatural), Coda, Gabriel POV, Hell, Hellhounds, Season/Series 13, Torture, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:42:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: There is a place in Hell--in the Pit, where time and space and pain lost meaning.





	Messenger, Trickster, Brother, Prisoner

It felt endless. 

Angels weren’t meant for a place like Hell. 

They were made of pure creation and power and Hell--Hell was all fighting for rank, was destruction and twisted hierarchy that made no sense. 

~*~

He was born youngest. And he was laughter, before the world turned and humans walked, before his brothers fought and his father fled. 

He was the youngest and free because of it. There was no burden of his father’s expectations like Michael carried, no fierce jealousy like Lucifer. There was never any question about where he fit, not like Raphael struggled with. 

Gabriel was laughter and tricks, and if he knew anything in all the worlds--it was that his father loved him, and that his brothers loved him. 

That things would never change. 

He was wrong. 

~*~

He dies. 

He dies so many times, he loses time. 

He thinks, sometimes, when he’s something close to lucid, that it’s a lot of time. 

But time’s a funny thing, here, where angels fear to tread. 

He dies and dies and dies and the eons creep past. 

~*~ 

He ran. 

He thinks he should be punished for that, but then--he was the baby. The youngest. He had been spoiled and loved and indulged and his laughter filled the cosmos, made his Father smile when his brother fought, made his brothers grin when their Father sulked away to create something new. 

And then it shattered. 

~*~ 

Sometimes, he doesn’t die. 

No. No that’s wrong. That’s a lie they tell in the pit. Everything here dies, and even if he is torn apart slower than he was before--it all ends the same. 

Bloody and broken, with his brothers watching him from the Cage, seething in silent hatred. 

The worst part, he thinks, as pain rips through him again, as his eyes begin to dim, again--the worst part is that he knows he deserves this. 

~*~ 

A part of him--a larger part than he thinks most would assume--wanted to stay. 

His family--his brothers, his dad--they were all he’d ever known. Even once the angels were created and Castiel wander, dark-winged and bright-eyed and curious in a way he recognized because  _ he _ was curious, even then, they felt--different. Other. 

The archangels were God’s first creation, flawed and arrogant and proud. And they were his family. 

Leaving them broke him. 

But watching--watching them shatter the world, watching them throw themselves at each other, watching the centuries of fury and fighting--

He wanted to stay and knew that if he did, it would kill him. 

He ran, silent and sad and unbearably lonely. 

~*~ 

There is a place in Hell--in the Pit, where time and space and pain lost meaning. 

Sometimes, while the Prince of the week ripped into him, while the Hounds tore him apart--while he writhed in agony on the rack--sometimes, it made him think of a world Dad built. 

It was a dark world, a place he’d created of void and pinpricks of starlight, a present for Aunt Amara. 

She hated it, the same grumpy way she hated everything. 

But that world. 

They snuck away there, him and his brothers, sometimes. While Dad lost himself to creation, they snuck into the dark void and blinding stars and the silent pressure of behmoth beasts flying through the darkness with them. 

This place--the disconnect, untethered feeling of it--it reminds him of that. 

~*~ 

He shouldn’t have gone back. 

Not for the Winchesters. 

Not for Castiel. 

Not for humanity. 

Sure as hell not for his brothers. 

But he did. For all of them. 

Especially for his brothers. 

~*~ 

He dies. He thinks, this is eternity. Dying again and again and again. Living only to be torn to pieces. An archangel brought low, made a plaything of hell. 

There’s a certain peace to that. 

Because if he is meant to die. To live only to be killed, to be healed only to be tortured--well. 

He casts his gaze to his brothers, to proud Michael and petulant Lucifer, and he grins at them, a tiny gasp escaping when Daigon sinks a wicked curved blade into his gut. 

Angel blade, he thinks. But slow. 

“Twist it up,” Michael says, and she glares over her shoulder. 

“Take his liver out. Slowly.” Lucifer adds, his eyes gleaming red. 

He groans as she smirks and rips him open. 

“You always liked seeing how things worked, big bro,” he pants, and Daigon snarls before she kills him.

~*~ 

He’s hanging from the rack while the Hell Hounds mill around him, when he feels it. 

Michael screams, a sound as insane and enraged as Hell has ever produced and Gabriel--

He hangs there, as the Hounds eat his innards, and he  _ laughs.  _

~*~ 

He can feel it. The strange resonance of power thrumming through hell and all the earth, and he tilts his head up, ignoring the demon carving into him, and smiles a deranged thing at Michael. “Feel that? It’s Dad.” 

~*~ 

Michael goes insane. He has been headed that way for a long time, and Gabe has been marching along at his side, but--

He is taken from the Rack. 

Taken from the Pit. 

His lips are stitched together--fitting, for a trickster messenger. 

He’ll be giving no messages, not like this, not bound in runed carved ropes and muzzled by thread soaked in holy oil, not locked behind a door painted with fresh blood and strong sigils. 

A prince of hell has made him a prisoner, has leashed an  _ archangel,  _  and for the first time in eons--since he died in that damn hotel for the first time, and was sent by his bastard brother to the hell of his own creation--for the first time, he feels the stirring of power and fury. 

~*~

“You’re mine. A tool. You’re nothing but a tool. Not an archangel. Not even an angel. My  _ dogs _ feed on you. You’re worthless.” 

Asmodeus talks a lot. And says a helluva a lot of nothing. 

He arches an eyebrow at his brother’s prince, unimpressed and mute. 

“I’ll kill you, when I’ve used you. Throw you aside like any tool I no longer need.

He’s smile, if he could. 

He’d laugh. 

Instead he closes his eyes, and he waits. 

~*~ 

He’s an archangel and he has survived a thousand years in hell and the family feud that destroyed worlds. 

He waits, patiently. 

One day. Soon. He’ll be free. And he’ll tear that cocky bastard in a white suit to pieces. 

A smile ticks his lips, just enough to tug, to  _ hurt _ . 

He waits. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> [Reblog on Tumblr.](https://areiton.tumblr.com/post/170669948287/messenger-trickster-brother-prisoner)


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